


Losing It All Was Never So Easy

by Starculler



Series: (Dis)placed [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Blood, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-05-25 17:58:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14982533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starculler/pseuds/Starculler
Summary: Captured and sold to the highest bidder by the Light, Robin (Dick Grayson) is the latest in a long series of projects to overthrow the heroes. He needs to find a way out of this hellhole and back home to Gotham, but that might be harder than just hopping a train or using a phone.





	1. The Brewing Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! It was a rough 1/2 year+ of getting diagnosed with RA and related complications, but I'm finally back and here with the promised YJ/Avengers crossover fic. I've hopefully changed a lot for those of you folks that read Not In Kansas Anymore. And for the newcomers: I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, don't be surprised by the small amount of chapters. This re-do is broken up into thematic parts (3 to be precise and with the collection totaling, roughly, 32 chapters) so you'll get plenty of content.
> 
> Updates will be about once a month (best i can do atm, sorry), with hopefully some little surprise updates in between :)

Gotham’s thin drizzle of rain, more mist than droplets, soaked through Robin’s uniform as the Boy Wonder sat at the edge of a skyscraper’s ledge. He pulled his cape tighter around himself, a shield against both the chill in the late-autumnal air and the world itself. His breath fogged around him as he watched the world rush by below him, silent because he was too high up for the sounds of Gotham’s night life to reach him. Part of him itched to reach for his grapple gun, leap off the edge, and fly — to feel the wind whip and push against his body, cold cutting against the exposed skin on his face as his cape flared out behind him. To feel the strain on his arms as he fired the line and let it pull tight, the exhilaration of swinging his body up and kicking out into a flip before allowing himself to fall once more.

But he stayed put. 

More than the adrenaline of flipping and running across the rooftops, he wanted silence. The time to think and cool down. And it was that gnawing want for isolation that drove him up there. It was a stakeout spot he and Batman had used two months ago, keeping tabs on a suspect in a case who worked in the building across the road. A lawyer on the mob’s payroll, though neither the GCPD nor Batman had enough evidence against him yet. 

Regardless, it had become a favorite spot for Robin to escape to; far enough away from prying eyes that he could relax and not obvious enough of a hiding spot to be easily found. He’d used it a few times already to escape Bruce after a fight and to keep out of sight of Alfred’s knowing gaze. He sighed, pulling one leg up against his chest and wrapping his arms around his knee. Now he could add avoiding the Team as an extra function. 

Just thinking about going back, to the cave or the manor, made the headache he’d nursed earlier flare up again, a steady drumbeat against his temples. The shouting match he’d gotten into with Bruce, not Batman, was bad enough. Yelling at Alfred, though, was really what kept him from wanting to go home. No matter what, the butler had never deserved his anger. What kept him from the cave, from the Team, was a fight with Wally. Misdirected anger after Bruce, after eating mat with Black Canary in training, after having to hear the stupid static playing constantly on the t.v. day after day and just wanting one iota of a second to just be silent. 

He ran a gloved hand through his hair, plastering back his limp bangs with a frustrated huff. Hiding had helped, though on some level he felt like a coward for it. Worse, actually, because the moment his comm had crackled to life in his ear and Kaldur’s voice had filtered through he’d shut it off. All of it. His comms, his trackers, the GPS function in his holo-computer that Batman thought he didn’t know about. He was, essentially, off the grid. Untraceable unless he wanted to be or until Batman decided to track him down the old fashioned way. It was simultaneously freeing and thrilling, yet incredibly guilt-inducing. Disobeying Batman, putting himself at risk like this, always left him feeling that way. 

At least, he thought idly, he’d kept to some other safety rules like wearing his uniform and not flipping and flying across Gotham like he desperately wanted to when his head wasn’t clear. Instead, he’d unnecessarily expended the extra energy to safely scale his way up from building to building to help blow off steam, but that was beside the point. He also wasn’t going off half-cocked to fight crime on his own even if he was sure that would help him cool down. Punching a dumb goon or two had always helped but, in light of a mishap two weeks ago that had resulted in a cracked rib and a few nasty lacerations, he was restricted to partnered fighting only. Batman’s orders. 

It wouldn’t earn him many brownie points with Bruce, and possibly even less with Alfred considering he’d spent the last half hour out in the rain, but it was something. Better than nothing. But if he really wanted to avoid being grounded, then he’d have to head home soon. 

The thought made his shoulders sag briefly before he forced himself to stand, uncurling himself from his sulking slouch. He swayed slightly on his feet on the roof’s outcropping, tempted to let himself drop as his hand crept to the compartment in his belt where he kept his grapple gun before turning sharply on his heel. Water splashed up his leg, but he paid it no mind as he walked to the building’s roof-access stairs. The siding had grown too slick and there weren’t any stable enough spots to hook his grapple into for his taste. _Better to be safe than sorry, Master Richard_ , he heard in Alfred’s posh voice. 

He reached for his lock-picking tools as he neared the door, glancing down for long enough that he missed the crackling glow of red energy behind him. Picking the lock was child’s play. The door clicked on the first try, swinging easily open when he turned the knob. Lightning flashed overhead, finally streaking across the sky to touch the ground rather than brewing silently among the clouds like it had been. The crack and boom of thunder, like the cacophonous striking of a cymbal followed by a deep bass’ rhythm thrumming in his chest, followed soon after. He wouldn’t admit it, but the unexpected sound had made him jump just slightly. 

“Oh, well isn’t that cute. The Bird Boy’s afraid of a little thunder.” 

Robin whipped around as another flash lit up the night, this time not flinching at the boom of thunder. His focus was drawn to the owner of the painfully nasal voice: Klarion. The witch boy stood not far from where Robin had perched, hands behind his back and a wicked grin stretching the features of his pale face. Robin clenched his hands into fists, gritting his teeth as Klarion took a step forward. Then another. 

A chaos lord was difficult enough to deal with on a good day when he was surrounded by his team. Alone and in the rain? Robin figured his chances were about as good as getting one of Batman’s rogues to willingly walk into Arkham. AKA: zilch. 

Klarion must have read him, his face or something in his stance, because the witch boy merely bent over slightly at the waist and said, “I do love a good chase.” Another bolt of lightning eerily lit his features as he cackled, the sound all but drowned out by the loudest boom of thunder yet. 

Robin took the opportunity and ran.

  


* * *

  


He rounded the corner after one flight of stairs before the glow of Klarion’s magic drowned the stairwell into eerie red light. He made it down another 4 flights, jumping more so than running down the steps, before turning left to push through an emergency exit accidentally left ajar. His boots skidded on the clean tile floor, almost knocking him headfirst into the narrow hallway’s wall if he hadn’t put his hands out in time. He looked left then right, trying for the life of him to remember which direction he should take. The building’s floor plan was fuzzy in his mind — it had been two months since he’d last looked at it after all — but hesitation would get him caught. Or worse. 

“Stuck?” Klarion grinned, lazily floating a foot off the ground to Robin’s right with his hands behind his back.  
Left it was then.

Robin sprinted down the corridor, taking a moment to dig through the pockets in his utility belt. He plucked a few smoke pellets and two wingdings, made to turn right where the hall split once more, then threw down the pellets. The eruption of smoke filled the confined space and choked his lungs briefly when one of Klarion’s bolts of red magic nearly clipped the side of his head. He pressed the detonation button on the first of his wingdings before sticking it to the wall and spinning on his heel to run down the opposite way. It was a long shot, but he hoped the ruse would distract Klarion for just long enough that he’d be able to find a way out. 

Luck was on his side when, after coming out of the smoke, he found himself in a larger office space lined in rows of tightly packed cubicles. He grinned when he saw the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the opposite wall. Foregoing the more cautious approach of sticking to the shadows and walls and using the cubicles to hide, he chose to make a beeline straight for the windows. He vaulted over two rows of flimsy, gray cubicle walls and was barely two feet away from his goal, arm cocked back to toss his remaining wingding to shatter the glass, when a solid weight slammed into him from the side. 

Robin heard more than felt the awful crunch in his arm as he hit the wall hard enough to put a sizable dent in it. He choked on a pained cry, the breath completely knocked out of him, as heat raced up from elbow to shoulder. Tears burned his eyes as he shifted, tried to stand despite the pain and how winded he felt. He grit his teeth and was almost into a crouch when a large paw swatted at his front, claws catching in the thick, kevlar-lined chest of his uniform.

He rolled, skidded, and slid across the floor, biting back a scream as it jarred his arm over and over again. Shaking and panting, he tried to force himself up only for the same massive paw to plant itself squarely on his back. It pushed and Robin’s body gave in easily, collapsing in a limp heap under the pressure as its claws pricked at him through cape and costume. He squirmed, kicking and flailing his good arm in a desperate attempt to find purchase or opportunity, but found neither. 

“Well, that was fun,” Klarion deadpanned as he stepped through one of his red portals. 

Robin froze when Klarion stepped in front of him, listening as he petted the enormous beast trapping him. He heard a murmured “good girl, Teekl” and the responding purr before the witch boy stepped back a few paces and crouched down. Klarion balanced himself on the balls of his feet, elbows on his knees and resting his cheek in one hand as he cocked his head lazily to one side. The shark-like grin on his face unsettled Robin, though, despite his circumstances, he didn’t show it. 

“What?” snapped Robin when Klarion kept up his insufferable silent staring. 

“Oh nothing. Just admiring the view is all.” Klarion cackled as Robin wrinkled his nose, glaring. “It’s not often one of you brats is, quite literally, underfoot - especially not the slipperiest little bird-brat. So, I have to say, I’m rather enjoying this. Or, we are. Aren’t we Teekl?” 

Teekl’s response was to press down harder on Robin’s back, enough to elicit a pained grunt and a wince when the cat’s claws finally punctured his skin. 

“Enough, Klarion. We need the boy alive.” 

The newcomer’s voice was deep and gravelly and all too familiar in the worst ways. Robin paled as he watched Vandal Savage stroll calmly into the mess of an office, stepping nonchalantly over debris and upended desks to stand next to the now scowling witch boy. 

“You’re no fun, Vandal.” Klarion pouted, but stood in one fluid motion. 

“This isn’t meant to be fun. It’s a job.” 

Klarion “hmphed” petulantly, but Vandal paid him no mind. Instead, he gazed down at the still-trapped boy wonder. Despite his efforts to look as unfazed as possible, Vandal’s smile sent a wave of chills down Robin’s spine. A million questions pressed against the tip of his tongue, eager to spill past his lips: Why did they need him? Was this something personal? A job for the Light? Who was calling the shots if not Vandal? Had they tracked him? How? Thoughts racing, head spinning, Robin opened his mouth and choked out the most pressing question: 

“What do you want with me?” 

Vandal’s eyes flashed disappointment, but only briefly before they returned to their typically neutral state. His lips turned downward into a severe frown while Klarion merely studied his nails, pretending he hadn’t even heard the question. Vandal didn’t bother leaning down like Klarion had, and instead tilted Robin’s chin painfully upward with the tip of his boot.

“That, young one, is something for us to know, and for you to find out.” 

Robin opened his mouth to quip or reply he wasn’t sure (it was such a cliched line!), but never got the chance. Vandal promptly pulled his boot back and kicked forward, smashing the flat of it into the side of Robin’s head. He watched coldly as the boy’s head bounced against the tile, leaving behind smudges of red where the skin had split. He pressed his hands behind his back as Klarion let out a low whistle.

“I thought we ‘needed him alive,’” Klarion mocked, miming quotes with his fingers. 

Vandal grunted and turned on his heel. “Send the child to Luthor. We are behind schedule as it is.”

Klarion rolled his eyes but obliged, opening a large portal once Teekl had transformed itself back into its smaller size. He grabbed Robin by one ankle and dragged him through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!  
> I hope you'll let me know what you think, but most of all that you'll enjoy the fic!!


	2. Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After losing to Klarion, Dick wakes up in unfamiliar territory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the wait! I had some family over for longer than expected, but it did give me some time to glue together the last missing pieces of this story. That said, from here on out I'm marching into unfamiliar territory, doing my best but!!! If you notice me slip up w/ characterization or some bit of comic lore I didn't catch or wrote out wrong, then I'd be real thankful if you let me know.
> 
> (P.S. You can pry the idea that Dick thinks of Bruce as his dad from my cold, dead fingers because i live for it lol)

Dick woke to the steady sounds of a variety of humming and beeping machinery, and the soft steps of multiple people carefully shuffling around on tiled flooring. As he dragged himself out of the sticky pull of unconsciousness, he noticed the sound of hushed voices, shuffled papers, the hollow echo of breathing into a mask as it pumped a steady stream of oxygen into his face. He let himself float there, half awake with a head stuffed so full of cotton that he could barely feel the various point of pain on his body. They’d given him the good stuff for sure, which, he knew, meant Bruce was near pulling his hair out with worry. While he couldn’t exactly remember what he’d done to warrant this — Bruce was all about staying sharp and coherent under all circumstances — it must have been pretty bad. 

He slowly opened his eyes after a while of just laying there, hissing when the harsh, fluorescent lighting burned them until his domino mask’s lenses whirred softly to life and adjusted. He blinked rapidly to clear away the colorful spots that danced in front of his vision and the tears that had sprung up in response. It was odd, wearing his mask when it was normally one of the first parts of his costume shed in the Batcave, and especially so in a medical emergency. Maybe he was in the Cave? Or even the Watchtower? Though the latter made him shudder, they were the only two reasons why Bruce or Alfred wouldn’t have removed his mask. That, and he could clearly hear more than four sets of footsteps walking around outside his peripheral range; two too many for it to be just them in the Batcave. 

Despite the subtle, pounding ache in his head and how heavy his body felt even while lying still, he figured it would be better to find out how grave the situation really was before the medicine induced fog dragged him, once more, back into the dark depths of unconsciousness. If he was in the Cave it wouldn’t be so bad, though definitely confusing considering the last thing he remembered was flying across Gotham’s rooftops. If he was in the Watchtower? Well, he was probably benched for the next half a year seeing as the only reason to wind up there was almost dying. 

With a soft huff of breath, he sat up. Or, tried to. His back a few inches off the bed, hands fisted and arms poised to help lift himself up, he found himself pulled roughly back by a pair of large hands on his shoulders. They pushed him back into the bed and _squeezed_ until he whined with pain too sharp for the numbing cotton feeling in his body to mask. He jerked his head back, straining his neck to see up and behind him, and felt the blood drain from his face. Where he’d hoped to see an exhausted Bruce was Lex Luthor with a slimy smile full of fake sympathy and cold eyes that betrayed the pure glee he felt at having him there, useless and subdued. 

“Careful now,” Luthor said, tone dripping a foul mockery of paternal care, “you’ll aggravate your wounds. Klarion’s pet did more damage than we’d thought, and we have had to spend a great deal of time taking care of the worst of it. It would be ashame if all of our efforts went to waste, wouldn’t it?” 

Luthor snapped his fingers as he spoke, and two aides appeared at his sides. They skirted Luthor easily and got to work strapping Dick’s — _Robin’s_ — hands and feet to the bed with pre-prepared sets of soft restrained so tight they cut off his circulation. Luthor himself busied himself with the one at his head, taking extra care to slowly press it across Robin’s forehead and buckle it down into place. Once that was done, he leaned over, hands braced on either side of Robin’s head, so they could see each other eye-to-eye. 

“As it is, all we have left to do is adjust your dose seeing as you’re awake well before we expected you to be, and watch over what remains of your bruised ribs and broken arm. Luckily, much of it has healed up rather well, I’m happy to say. However,” Luthor affected a rueful tone, though his features remained stoic except for the growing grin that split his face,” you will be adding quite a few nasty scars to your collection, Boy Wonder.”

“Ho-” Robin’s voice was an ugly croak, hoarse and cracking from disuse. He tried twice more before finally managing to push most of the words out. “How long … have I … been …?”

Luthor quirked a brow at his question and removed himself from the head of Robin’s bed. Robin strained to keep his eyes on the man, but the restraints kept him perfectly in place. _Damn._

“Not long. A paltry two weeks, though it’s been more than enough for this finest of facilities to speed along your recovery.” 

Robin paid no mind to Luthor’s words as he continued speaking. He felt sick. Cold and clammy. Empty. _Two weeks_. Luthor had to be lying, he reasoned. He had to be. Batman - Bruce - _his father_ would have found him by now. There was no way they could have kept him away from Bruce that long. Batman … Bruce would have moved mountains to find him. He was sure of it. He would have bet his _life_ on it because he’d do the same if Bruce had gone missing. Luthor _had to be lying._

“Nevertheless,” Robin’s attention shifted to Luthor again — better that than the icy panic squeezing his chest because _it wasn’t true_. “It is what it is. Doctor, prepare the boy if you would. I have some matters to attend to before our end of the contract is fulfilled. I will see you another time, Boy Wonder.” Luthor paused, then spoke again with no small amount of mirth, “Or, I suppose I won’t be.” 

As Luthor’s footsteps retreated, another person’s replaced them. The doctor was covered head to toe in scrubs, gloves, a mask as though prepped for surgery. The only part of them visible was their face, wrinkled and obviously exhausted with dark smudges under their drooping eyes. Robin wriggled, trying in vain once more to loosen the cuffs. When their gazes met briefly, the doctor’s eyes darkened and Robin was almost certain he’d heard a soft _I’m sorry_ before they turned away and got to work. 

It scared him, those words. The doctor’s worn face. The fact that he couldn’t see what it was they were doing. He heard something being wheeled and parked near him. The stuttering chug and eventual hum of a machine being turned on. The awful smell of antiseptic as someone wiped down the sides of his neck, insides of his elbows, and wrists. He watched one hold what looked like an IV line as they barked orders at someone else. 

What were they saying? He couldn’t tell. All he could hear was the accelerated, incessant pounding of his pulse. The taste of fear on his tongue, or maybe it was the bile that had begun to crawl up his throat. He felt numb all over from the meds, the room’s terrible chill, the thrill of fear keeping him locked in place. He should move, needed to move. Do something. _Anything._

Before he could so much as open his mouth, the doctor held his face between their hands. Robin held his breath, watching them with wide eyes behind his lensed mask. The doctor looked down at him, and Robin mouthed the word Please in one last desperate attempt. The doctor blinked once, twice, then looked up at their assistants and said only “Begin.”

Under the haze of still-unknown pain medication, Robin barely felt the sting of each syringe as they punctured his skin in each pre-swabbed area. Six pricks of pain subsided until the doctor gave a second command. Two machines whirred to life on either side of him as something liquid sloshed violently within them. He couldn’t see more than a small section of one of the long, thin tubes attaching him to, he assumed, the machines. For a few seconds the tube remained clear, and Robin hoped that maybe whatever they were about to pump him full of had malfunctioned. When he watched the tube finally fill with a thick, black liquid, however, he sucked in a breath. A single, pointless breath to prepare himself.

He wanted to laugh — would have if he could. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Instead, he screamed. And screamed. And screamed as black liquid invaded his body and lit a fire under his skin. Until his body seized and his eyes rolled back into his head. Until he was unconscious again, no longer able to wonder how much worse that could have been if he hadn’t been chock full of painkillers.

  


* * *

  


When Robin woke there was no pain. No fire under his skin. No doctor to hold his head or stick him full of needles again. No machines. There was only him and the bed he was tied to. For a moment there was gratitude. Then, panic. The sudden, urgent need to get up and away. To run. There was no thought. Only instinct. And instinct was what he acted on when he lurched up out of the bed and onto unsteady feet, the loud _clank_ and _thud_ of metal and material on tile the only sound in the whole room. The acrid, sterilized scent of a hospital burned his nose and lied sour on his tongue, but behind it he found something else. Something sweet. 

The scent lured him out into the hallway, past doors and doors of nothing and no one. It was odd. A coincidence. Luck. _Trouble_. The last sounded more like Bruce than himself and that alone made him falter. He paused in an empty corridor, pressed one hand against the brightly colored wall, and pushed the heel of his palm into his eyes. Even behind his mask it was painfully bright, though he did his best to ignore the annoyance. He had to think. Bruce’s voice in his head was right, but he had to get out. He had to — 

He walked uncertainly to the nearest door and wrapped his bare hand around the doorknob. He had to check. The door opened smoothly, without a single sound, into a bright, empty room. Robin blinked as he walked carefully inside, skirting plants, chairs, and desks. Here, at least, his eyes didn’t ache from the light. Here, there was a window. It was floor-to-ceiling, about as wide as he was tall, and outside, clear as day, was Metropolis. So close. He was so close. He pressed his left hand — clean, unscarred, with no trace of any break — against the thick glass. 

Could it really be that easy?

 _No_ , the Bruce-voice growled at him. But it was so close. So tempting. Robin screwed his eyes shut and grit his teeth. Did he really have time to think about it? Not … Not really. 

“Shit,” he ground out before pulling away from the window. He wanted to break the glass so badly, to just throw himself out and into the skyline, hoping Superman would hear him scream and swoop in just in time. But this wasn’t just some office building. This is where he’d woken up to Luthor and a whole room staged to look like a hospital, and he didn’t have time to waste on opportunities that were obviously traps. The possibility that Luthor had somehow rigged the glass to be unbreakable, and the room itself (if not the whole building) soundproofed was too high. And, he noticed as he surveyed his reflection, he was too ill-equipped. No gloves, boots, vest, belt, or cape. All he had were his pants, and even those were practically irreparable. “ _Shit_.”

Robin turned from the room and traced his steps back into the room he’d woken up in. He tip-toed cautiously through the room, checking every nook and cranny to be sure there was no one hidden in there, before relaxing slightly. His search also confirmed that the room was entirely walled off. No windows. No vents. Nothing. He sighed and scrubbed at his face before settling for biting at his thumb. There had to be something. Luthor was smart and Robin had no doubt the man would expect him to find a way out. The problem was finding a way out that hadn’t already been considered and had countermeasures put in place.

He puffed out a breath, eyes scanning every inch of available space, but nothing came to him. He threw his head back with a frustrated groan, closing his eyes against the room’s harsh lights. Plan after plan popped into his head only to be rejected. He was washed up, kaput, at 14. _Unbelievable._

“Why can’t this be as easy as just crashing through a ceiling? Or catching a bank robber? Or Calculus?” He sighed. “Why’d it have to be Lex _freaking_ Luthor who-” Robin cut himself short, blinking owlishly. 

_Oh._

He looked up, squinting past the lights, at the ceiling’s tiles. Within seconds he was off, first to the bed, which turned out to be nothing more than a fancy looking gurney, and wheeled it over a few paces until it was between two rows of lights. He then grabbed a chair to place on top for some extra height — cursing his height as he did. Clambering up first onto the bed and then the chair was quick work, but he wasn’t yet tall enough to reach the panel. From his perch he looked through the room again until he found a second chair, plastic with long armrests identical to the one he was standing on. 

It took him no time at all to climb down, grab the chair, and drag it across the room. What would take time was pulling it apart, especially without any of his tools. Taking a deep breath, and a moment to glance at the still-closed door, he grabbed the handle with one hand and the back with another. It was a long shot, but worth a try. Robin _pulled_. There was a _snap_ and _crack_ and then both ends of the chair flew apart in his hands. It was unbelievable. Robin dropped the back to pull the arm free from the seat, and was surprised to find it as easily broken as the first time. Bad luck for Luthor that he decided to invest in cheap chairs, but it was fantastic news for Robin. 

His second attempt to reach the ceiling tile was, thankfully, a success. With the chair’s arm, he pushed the tile up and out of the way, glad that it was heavier than he’d expected. Hopefully, it meant the ceiling would be able to hold his weight on top of it. He took a quick moment to center himself, breathe, judge the angle, and, finally, jump. His fingers managed to, just barely, catch the edge of the open space, but it was enough. With tremendous effort, he managed to pull himself up, first up to his elbows, then to his chest, and finally the rest of the way up. After fixing the displaced tile, shoving it back into place, he surveyed the cramped space between duct and pipework and the ceiling’s surface. It was tight, but doable. 

Robin crawled forward, slow and steady so he would minimize his chances of being found. He skirted around and avoided even the most minimal sound just to be sure he wasn’t caught, from the smallest scuttle to the coughing man as he passed over an occupied room. After half an hour of crawling on his hands and knees, he finally found a way into the proper ductwork through a loose air vent. From there, it took another ten minutes to find a way up.

He began to climb up, pulling himself up and over the edge and onto a new level well after his back and feet had gone numb from pushing against the cold metal. He crawled forward from there until, finally, he hit a dead end. Cursing, he maneuvered himself back around to face the way he’d come and paled. 

Tinted goggles set against a full-faced mask stared at Robin where before there had been no one. The space was obviously tight for the adult, their shoulders pressed tighter than Robin’s against the vent’s edges, but they moved forward nonetheless. Robin scooted back, suddenly breathless as they pushed into his space. From below, muffled through ceiling and duct, came Luthor’s voice.

“Well played, Boy Wonder, and a wonderful demonstration. You’ve certainly proved your worth to our investor, so why don’t we end the game here. Retrieve him.” 

The last phrase was directed not at him, but at the adult who, in only a moment, had managed to draw an ornate, shiny knife. Without warning, they struck. Robin yelped, pushing as far back as he could go and watching the knife slice through the air before sliding, almost neatly, into his abdomen, up to hilt. He screamed, white-hot pain spreading up and out as the other person clawed their way closer, using the knife as leverage and dragging it further down, in and out.

The last thing Robin saw before he sunk back down into darkness was the adult prying the vent open after pulling the knife free from his stomach. His blood dripped down his front in a thick, steady stream, onto the metal, and down in droplets to Luthor’s feet.

  


* * *

  


The third time Robin woke, it was cold. He couldn’t move, frozen in his thawing prison. The view port on the machine was frosted over, crystallized constellations and condensation dripping down as its hum intensified and its interior slowly warmed. The cryopod — he knew it was a cryopod because what else could freeze a person and keep them alive simultaneously? — was cramped, as tall and wide as he was. A coffin. Or, similar to one at least. 

Had Luthor put him in it? Was he still in Metropolis? How— 

His thread of questions died when a face peered in through the view port, distorted by the glass’ shape. He couldn’t hear them, or anything outside the pod, but the window was clear enough by then that he could see their lips. Read them.

_Welcome to your new home._

The person, a woman with curly, blond hair neatly pinned back, and a face void of emotion despite the crinkle in her eyes and the smile plastered on her face. She pressed her lips into a thin line, squinting a little as she used a pen to tap on the glass. He blinked at her once, twice, his head too fuzzy and fogged up still to do much more than that. Regardless, her lips pulled back into that same smile before she turned on her heel and walked out. Behind her, a row of bars lowered down from above as a trio of people dressed head to toe in what looked like sleek, modernized, yellow and black hazmat suits, or something similar to them, scurried about.

Robin, for his part, allowed the cold to drag him back down into his icy embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna take a moment to thank all of you readers (new and previous). The amount of love this fic has gotten already and the comments from returning readers is honestly wonderful and overwhelming. I couldn't ask for a better audience and I hope you guys continue to enjoy the story!!


	3. Anesthetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick closed his eyes. One breath in. One breath out. Eyes open. Back straight. 
> 
> Show time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am soooo late with this and I'm so sorry it's not really my best. But after this we get to the good bits!! Which is what I've been waiting for!
> 
> Thanks so much for being patient with me <3
> 
> Edit: Figured I'd nip this in the bud a bit 'cause it's a little confusing. If you've noticed the alternating use of Dick and Robin in the fic, pls know it's on purpose! Dick thinks of himself as "Dick" when he's alone/safe, but as "Robin" when he's either in costume, danger, or doesn't wanna risk revealing his secret ID.

Dick sat on the lumpy mattress provided for him, his back to the electrified iron bars that barred any attempts at escape from his boxy prison. He’d tried, once. Made a run for it his first week and gotten as far as the first blast shield at the end of the long, white hallway. They’d hauled him back kicking and screaming, tossed him back into his cell so hard that the back of his head had split open. Rather than nurse the wound and staunch the blood that matted his hair, he’d rushed them. Too late. The bars had pulled up from the floor and closed him in. He’d screamed, wrapped white-knuckled fists around the cold metal, shook them so hard they rattled in place, but only for a moment. One of the guards — one of two standing outside his cell at that moment — had keyed in a code. They’d stood back and watched as he’d yelled again. Called them cowards. Dared them to get close. 

Then the bars had hummed. Charged up. He hadn’t realized. Not right away. He’d just kept screaming at them. Goading them. He smelled his skin burn well before he felt it. His flesh had sizzled and cracked as the bars buzzed. The guards had watched as he reeled back, palms steaming. Blistering. Bleeding. He still had the scars. His palms were a patchwork of webbed scars, puckered and raised and rough. He hadn’t touched the bars since. 

He sighed and pulled one knee up to his chest, tucking the other leg underneath himself. His bangs tickled his chin as his hair fell forward, gathering at and falling past his shoulders when he curled forward. Boredom. Exhaustion. They were common feelings, especially when he was kept in his cell. His “room.” The blond woman had told him to call it that. It would help him adjust. Or, that’s what she kept saying. 

What was her name? She’d told him plenty of times, but it never stuck. Like water, it slipped through his fingers every time. Through the cracks and gaps. A lot of things did now. Memories and facts and feelings. Faces.

Time. 

He’d tried to keep track of it at first. Hoarded a scrap of metal and used it to scratch rows and rows of tallies into the cement wall until the guards found out. He hadn’t stopped. When they took the tool, he’d used his hands. It took longer to scratch each and every tally mark into existence. It had been agonizing. Painful. Bloody. It, also, hadn’t lasted long. After a few bloody fingers and missing nails, they gave him a pad of paper and a crayon. He’d scratched out two hundred sixty four tally marks — 50 on the wall, 10 stained in his blood. All for nothing when he’d found out he was losing time. 

He curled his toes into the loose sheet fitted around the mattress and let his fingers press harshly into his leg. It was frustrating not knowing. How long had he really been there? Why hadn’t Bruce found him yet? What couldn’t he remember? Was anyone even looking? How long had he spent in this cell asking himself those questions? Agonizing over the possibilities. Maybe they’d cloned him. Or Klarion had cast a spell that even Doctor Fate couldn’t stop. Maybe they were dead. Maybe they gave up. Or never looked at all.  
That one was the worst. The idea that maybe Bruce hadn’t cared. Hadn’t looked. He knew it wasn’t true. He knew Bruce cared about him, maybe more than anyone else had since Dick’s parents. Still, the thought remained. Bounced around his head. Whispered in his ear — a voice. Compelling. Hypnotizing. Undeniable. 

Dick’s breath stuttered. Hitched. One of the guards shuffled in place, a reminder of his audience. He scrubbed at his face, dragging his bangs back as he straightened. In one fluid motion he stood, stretched up on the tips of his toes and reached up toward the cell’s high ceiling. His eyes immediately found the vent just to the left of where he stood.

Being idle had never been one of his strengths. He needed to move. To talk. To do something. That vent had been his something. A way to break out of the monotony and boredom of being cooped up. Technically it had been a way to break out, period. A bad way, but still one he’d attempted. For lack of a better idea, he’d tied together the five blankets he’d been allowed and attached a slim paperweight he’d smuggled into his cell to one end of it. After weeks of failing between the daily change of guard, he’d gotten it through the slats in the vent by some miracle and had tried to climb it like the rope in gym class. He’d gotten a little more than halfway up when the knots came loose and his flimsy “rope” unraveled. 

It had felt like hours before they’d found him, curled up on the floor of his cell, a tangle of splayed limbs and blankets left wheezing from the force of his fall. A sharp, numbing pain crawling up his left leg. Escape attempt number three had ended with a cast, stitches, his blanket privileges being revoked, thorough searches of his person both coming and going, and two guards permanently stationed in front of his cell so he was never left alone again.

He pried his gaze away from the vent and turned on his heel. Despite how quickly he’d healed, it wasn’t something he was keen on repeating. Even now, it was tempting. Low-lying fruit. He tended to avoid looking at it if he could. Instead, he pulled his attention to his guards. They never spoke to him except to get him in and out of the cell. Never so much as glanced at him unless he did something suspicious, which, truth be told, wasn’t often. Their attention usually meant pain — jabs from the cattle prods carefully holstered at their sides. However, they were late to collect him and he was bored. Boredom, of course, usually led to dumb decisions. Decisions like pestering his guards, consequences be damned.

“Hey.” No answer. “Hey.” Dick pouted briefly, puffed out his chest, set his jaw, and made to try again when the guard beat him to it.

“Back against the wall.” An order. 

_Finally._

Dick closed his eyes. One breath in. One breath out. Eyes open. Back straight. 

Show time.

  


* * *

  


“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” 

Robin ground his teeth, eyes narrowed at the glowing monitor as rows of code flashed by. Sweat beaded on his brow, plastered sticky strands of hair to his skin, and soaked through the thin black uniform they’d given him. He was close. So close. Just another minute or two was all he needed. 

_One minute._

Alarms blasted through the hallway in time with flashing red lights. By some miracle he’d slipped away, freshly dressed for another round of tests. He hadn’t tried anything for a while, months maybe, and they’d dropped their guard in response. They, like a surprising amount of people, were always willing to underestimate a kid. Even one they were torturing and training.

_Thirty seconds._

The terminal’s screen flashed a brief error message and he had to squash the urge to punch the screen. Instead, he dismissed the message and urged his fingers to type faster, faster, faster before they could figure out where exactly he’d gone.

_Ten seconds._

Footsteps thundered in the distance, drawing closer with every second. He pressed his lips into a thin line and forced himself to focus on his task rather than the stampeding steps of his captors. If he could just do this — this one thing then— 

“Gotcha!” 

Robin grinned as a new window popped on screen. His fingers trembled, hovering just above the keyboard. He licked his lips. Worked his jaw. Shifted his weight. His eyes burned as he gazed, unblinking, at the screen. It worked. It worked. It. Worked.  
His body moved as if in slow motion, every second dragged out into an agonizing crawl. His fingers couldn’t work fast enough as he typed out his message. A plea for help blasted on every channel he could think of. Justice League. Police Departments. Lone vigilantes. Anyone who could get a message to Batman. To Bruce. 

It was desperate. Sloppy. Careless. There was no room to complain though. He had one chance. This chance, and he couldn’t waste it even as every muscle in his body screamed at him to run. To get ready. To fight. Instead, he poured it all into typing. He knew he wouldn’t get out. Couldn’t get out. Not on his own. Seven attempts had been more than enough to convince him of that. He needed help. And with this, maybe someone would finally find him. Maybe Bruce would finally find him.

He tapped out the final key just as a group of heavily armed guards dressed head to toe in riot gear turned the corner, guns drawn and aimed at him. He hardly spared them a glance, focusing instead on getting his message sent. All he needed was another second. _BANG_. A bullet whizzed by — a warning shot that glanced off the wall. Just a few more keys and his chances of freedom increased exponentially. If he could only — 

Robin _screamed_. He whipped his head around to face the rows of guards, fluorescent lights bouncing painfully off their armor and burning his watering eyes. His arm throbbed where the bullet had hit just above the elbow. No blood or pierced skin. Just the terrible, familiar ache of cracked bones and bruised skin. He glared. The guards shifted as he moved, body now fully facing them with one hand still on the terminal’s keyboard. He grinned, pulling together every ounce of his old snark and Robin-ly bravado still left in him and pressed the key.

The sound of a gun going off was a terrible thing. The sound of twenty-some semi-automatics firing almost at once was, from experience, terrifying. He’d never really feared guns, not in the traditional sense at least. He was Robin, Boy Wonder, the kid who taunted goons with guns all night long and never froze up. Sure, some of Bruce’s aversion to the things had rubbed off, but he wasn’t scared. It wasn’t like he’d die or anything. Bruce had always had his back, just like he had Bruce’s, and Alfred had both of theirs back in the cave with all the medical supplies they could ever need. So no, he’d never been scared of a gun killing him. Not once.

He fell, arms and legs splayed out. Silent. Still. A single, rasping breath rattled his chest. His whole body felt simultaneously numb and on fire. His bones brittle and broken. Heavy. His mind both reeling and empty as he stared, wide eyed, at the blinding, buzzing light affixed to the ceiling. 

Feet at his head, near his shoulders. Voices. Fingers at his neck and wrists. White coats and black armor. A gun on either side of him. A syringe pressed into the inside of his arm. The drain of its contents into his veins. Cold. Uncomfortable. The drag of sudden exhaustion burning through him, urging him to sleep even as the Bruce-like voice inside ordered him to stay awake. 

“Prep and move him to room 6b. He’s ready.”

Maybe, he mused as he faded, he should have been more afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna thank each and every one of you who sticks around to read, comment, and give kudos. Y'all are awesome and I love you haha


	4. Unplanned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They come for him. He's free. But it isn't Bruce. Why wouldn't it be Bruce?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays and New Years and Valentines day and any other holiday that's passed! It's 2019 and we are kicking it off with some fun Hawkeye banter to lighten things up a little. I've never read his comics, so my fav interpretation of him has always been the kinda goofy/sarcastic version from one of the Avengers cartoons and I kind of try to draw from that. Hopefully you guys enjoy him!

“Nat. Nat, there’s a kid here. You didn’t say anything about — Of course I’m sure. I know what a freakin’ kid looks like! Okay well, that only happened once and you have no right to bring it up over public comms, and _this is really off topic._ Back to the kid in front of me please? No. Yes, I’m being serious. A child. Like, I don’t know, ten? Looks ten. Small and, uh… Well he looks, I don’t know, underweight? _Really_ underweight actually. I can see his ribs under the weird, like, unitard thing he’s in. It’s also _freezing_ in here. I think his lips are a little blue but it’s kinda hard to tell with all the… Uh. Stuff. 

“Well, I don’t know? Why would I know what they’re doing to him? Tony that’s not the _point_. Look just, ugh, get ready to maybe run or something? Maybe Hulk it up a little? What do you mean why, Bruce? ‘Cause I’m gonna unwire this kid and get him out of here, _that’s why_. Geez. What is wrong with — See! Cap agrees with me! Look, possible planted mini assassin or not, we can’t leave a kid in an old and apparently not abandoned HYDRA base. If it makes you all feel better, I’ll cuff him or something. Well, no. I don’t know? Look, Nat, just because your outfit can hide all kinds of cool things like cuffs without making it look bulky, doesn’t mean all of us — What do you _mean_ Tony had all your suits upgraded? Why isn’t _mine_ upgraded with hidden pockets all over the place? What the hell Tony?!

“Okay, look, you know what? Never mind. Just, make me a distraction so I can get this kid out. Yes, _now_. Don’t give me that excuse, I know you’re already done siphoning data from the computers, Nat. Seriously? Really? Nat, I’ve known you forever. I’m, like, the last person you’re gonna be able to bluff. Look, I’m literally taking an I.V. out of this kid’s arm _right now_ and it would maybe be a little nice to have a team nearby. Just, y’know, a little professionalism here. And yes, Tony, I get the irony. Laugh any harder and I’m putting spiders in your fancy pillow cases, rich boy. Well, that Spider-kid, duh. Wait, what you mean he doesn't — 

“But he’s _called_ Spider—”

There was a pneumatic hiss followed by a beat of silence, then:

“Shit. I’m about to have company, so if any of you are nearby then now would be a _really_ good time to show up ‘cause I don’t know how many arrows I can shoot while carrying an unconscious kid. Yeah, I’ve got him now and am, uh, heading towards the back? Well, I don’t know. Everything kind of looks exactly the same so — well I’d love to see you try and navigate this place without the blueprints on in that fancy suit of yours, Stark. Yeah, yeah, yeah, heard it all before. Look, if you wanna fly your fancy robot butt over here and help me out, then maybe I’ll… Uh.

“I. I think he’s waking up? Give me a sec. Kid? Hey, kid. You with me?”

Robin felt heat. Hands. The weight of his own body rushing back into existence from the hazy, anesthetic void. The twitch of his fingers, involuntary as his muscles pulled taut and relaxed, feeling flowing back in after so long of being drowned in a sea of nothing. Then, recognition. No needles, wires, machines to be plugged into as white coats fluttered to and fro in a silent frenzy. Just one man. Alone. The echo of his voice stretched in two unending directions — a corridor rather than the reverberating bounce of a room. Unconfined. Unrestrained. 

_Free._

His body moved well before his mind had caught up to the fact that he even had a full body to move around in. He struck up, jabbed his elbow into the stranger’s face and used the man’s reaction to wriggle out of his now-loose hold. He stumbled once his feet hit the floor, limbs uncoordinated and slow to respond, but swung around to face the other regardless, half-crouched with his arms up, ready to fight. The lights burned even behind his closed eyelids, but he forced them open a crack to peer at the man through the tears that sprang up almost immediately. Although blurry, he could make out short, dark blond hair, black and purple pieces to a tight outfit, a solid build, and a lump of something behind his back that Robin guessed were the arrows the man had mentioned.

“Fu—” Robin watched the man lean forward, clutching his face as he ground out a string of half-aborted curses. “You broke my nose! Shit! Ugh.” The man shook his head and wiped his nose, leaving behind a smudge of bright red. A surge of satisfaction curled in him before it flickered out, stamped on and subdued in favor of focus as he watched the man easily disregard the pain and disorientation. “Look, kid,” the man started as he took a step forward. Robin took a step back in response. The man sighed. “I’m here to help,” he said, voice softer. Serious. “I just wanna help you get out of here, okay? My name’s Hawkeye and I’m a member of the Avengers. My friends and I just wanna get you out. Get you someplace safe. Home, maybe?”

Hawkeye waited. Robin watched. Neither moved until a klaxon blared, screeching its alarm throughout the facility as the bright fluorescents overhead died out and were replaced with flashing, red emergency lights. Robin cried out, doubling over as he clawed at his ears in a frantic attempt to drown out the piercing noise, eyes screwed shut and then forced wide in a futile attempt to keep an eye on the man named Hawkeye, who’d managed to disappear in the seconds he’d been distracted.

“And, that would be my friends.” Robin had two seconds to recognize Hawkeye’s voice from behind him, and one to attempt to turn around and face him before there were hands wrapping around his waist. “Sorry about this, but we gotta move.” 

As he spoke, Hawkeye turned Robin around the rest of the way only to bend at the knee, pressing his shoulder into Robin’s stomach, and lift. Robin yelped as Hawkeye came back up to full height and his body bounced with the motion, limp and tense all at once when a hand settled firmly on his back while another grabbed at his legs. With another apology, Hawkeye spun on his heel and bolted. Robin scrambled to find purchase on Hawkeye’s back, some way — _any way_ — to keep his head from smacking into either back or quiver in time with the other’s uneven gait. Finally, he settled for digging his elbows into the muscles of Hawkeye’s back, lips pulled into a faint smirk at Hawkeye’s pained response, but unfortunately leaving his ears exposed to the dizzying, painful wail of alarms. Despite that, he cocked his head to one side at a crackle of static from Hawkeye’s ear, quick to recognize the sound of comm tech and straining to hear what was being said. Maybe, just maybe, even recognize a voice on the other side.

_“…nutes to get…is…Cap for…”_

Robin huffed, frustrated and tempted to snatch the comm away from Hawkeye, but restrained himself. It was too grainy to hear clearly and the alarms too loud for him to listen in, so he instead resigned himself to being carried off like a sack of potatoes. Maybe Br— Batman would scold him for being too trusting, allowing some self-proclaimed hero he didn’t recognize to make off with him, but at the same time anyone and any place had to be better than here. Maybe the Avengers and this Hawkeye were new, established in the last … year. The year he’d been held captive. More than a year. 

Bile crawled up his throat and his stomach churned at the thought. He felt sick. Dizzy. Flushed. Abandoned. Anger, like fire, burned in his chest. Made him want to throw up. Why wasn’t Batman here? Why was it this unknown hero and not his dad who’d found him? Why —

“Shit,” Hawkeye cursed softly, but the panic laced through it dragged Robin out of his spiraling thoughts. “We got, uh, guns. Lots of guns.” 

Robin pushed and twisted from his position slung over Hawkeye’s shoulder in an effort to see. He managed to crane his head around just enough to see the glint of a muzzle pointed at them, an armored arm, the sheen of sweat on a goon’s brow, and he paled. His body ached where he’d been shot at before just three weeks ago, and his hands shook with the force of his fear. This time there would be blood when the triggers were pulled. There would be death. His? Maybe. He didn’t know how expendable a pet project he was to these sickos. Hawkeye’s? Definitely. Robin’s heart thundered in his chest, beating so loud he thought it might break free of his body and run away. He felt cold, numb, his hands clammy as he pushed his hair back and away from his face. Hawkeye’s grip on his back and legs tightened. Robin ground his teeth. 

“Put me down.” Robin’s voice, his very breath, trembled. When Hawkeye said and did nothing, he thumped him on the back and spoke again, voice just the slightest bit more even. “Put me down. Please.” His voice, the traitor, broke on the last word, but it drew Hawkeye’s attention. 

“Stay behind me,” he whispered before addressing the gun-wielding crowd. “I’m gonna put the kid down, nice and easy so don’t none of you get antsy. Alright?” He didn’t wait for a response before moving to set Robin down, using both hands to steady him, then reaching for a collapsible bow Robin hadn’t noticed. 

“Ready?” 

Hawkeye stared at Robin, grim. Determined. Resigned. Robin knew he was looking at a dead man. The minute the bow sprang into shape, maybe before, they would open fire. Robin’s breath hitched. He didn’t want to watch a man die. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. He was _Robin_ , partner to the World’s Greatest Detective, saver of people, drawing the eye of idiot villains while the real work happened in the shadows. No one died on his watch, not while he still lived and breathed. There was always a way out. A workaround. A back door. He just had to _think_.

Hawkeye nudged him, firm hand pushing at his back, urging him to get behind where it would be relatively safe as the comm crackled to life once more. Robin frowned, eyes searching, desperate, for anything. But there was nothing. The hall was bare, kept neat and spotless. The doors all locked behind security systems it would take him hours to get through without the holo computer in his uniform. There was nothing but a lone hero, a scared sidekick, and a wall of guns barring their way forward. He sighed, one long shuddering breath, and shifted his stance.

Fine. If Robin couldn’t do it, then the person they’d tried to mold him into would.

Robin took a half step back, attention shifting from Hawkeye to the goons and prayed his stupid plan would work. He blinked once, twice, breathed in, and reached inside himself for the cold, clinical focus they’d taught him to hone. Time seemed to stretch and slow as he settled into that space. His skin buzzed with static just under the surface, the need to move and flip and fidget reigned in and pulled to new purpose. It felt like a second skin of sorts, tight and restricting but forced to fit after training and teaching and pushing. He heard the whisper of his teacher’s voice in his ears, as if she stood just beside him, harsh and demanding as ever in her instruction.

_“Study your enemy, find their weak point, and exploit it. Simple, precise, and clear as day. Honestly if I must repeat myself one more time—”_

He breathed out, shoving the memory away before it could distract him. He watched the men with guns and, out of the corner of his eye, Hawkeye who still stood half-crouched, waiting for him to hide. One breath in. He steeled himself. One breath out. His muscles relaxed. In. A shift of his feet. Out. Knees bent. In.

Robin lunged. He almost missed the way Hawkeye’s eyes widened, fear and panic as his face paled, and then his focus was solely ahead. He felt both too slow and too fast all at once as the row of guns and eyes shifted, pointed at him. The first click of the trigger, clear despite the alarms, and he braced himself for pain that never came. An arrow whizzed past a half-second before the gun activated, and knocked it just enough that its spray struck the wall rather than his flesh. A few guns pointed back at Hawkeye, fired, and Robin strained to hear a grunt or scream over the cacophony as he reached his would-be shooter. He ripped the gun from the man’s hands and leaped. Wrapped and squeezed his legs around throat and armor, and jabbed his elbow into the visor hard enough it shattered. The next body was close enough to reach without his feet touching the floor. Three had fallen at his hands already when Hawkeye’s voice — shout, scream, concern — cut through the noise.

“Kid!”

Robin swung his head, dread pooling in his gut and his focus broken. Then pain. Warmth. His breath stuttered. Faltered. Failed him. The cloying scent of burned flesh and the copper tang of blood assaulted his senses. An arrow lodged itself in a body behind him with a solid _thwump_ , the smoking gun clattering not far from limp fingers. His abdomen burned, but the rest of him went cold. Tense. He blinked, slow and owlish, and pressed a steady hand to the burning source. It came away red and slick, dripping and overflowing, collecting on the floor and saturating his thin clothing. He’d been … He’d been shot. He didn’t scream. Didn’t move. Didn’t feel. 

_“Push past the pain. The pain is nothing. Don’t let it muddle your mind. Focus!”_

Focus. Focus. Focus. One step. Pain. Focus. Step. Pain. Pain. Pain.

“Kid!” Hawkeye’s voice sounded tense. Hoarse. 

Focus. Robin swallowed. The room spun. Darkened. Narrowed. 

Focus.

_“Remember, Robin:”_

Focus.

_“The night falls as a new, gray dawn rises, and with it our triumph.”_

Focus

_“Our survival.”_

Robin's breath settles and then, he _moves_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weird cliche phrases time -- I sure do wonder what _that's_ all about  
>  Just 3 chapters left in this first part!! And finally some hints about what he's doing down here in this place  
> As always, thanks for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos!! I still can't believe so many folks are enjoying this fic and I hope y'all continue to do so!! <3


	5. Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a trick. He knows it is, and he is _so_ tired of their tricks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update after less than a month? It's more likely than you think!  
> Well, it's still technically within the monthly update realm but whatev. The exciting part here is Dick and an Avenger finally get to meet and chat! Once again, I'm fudging some details, mixing up parts of the MCU w/ the cartoons I've watched and, of course, making other stuff up (though the made up stuff is mostly building layout related). 
> 
> While I tried my best to make sure you guys can hopefully follow Dick's leaps of logic here (this one's a bit of a ride so hang on haha), please let me know if things seem unclear. I'm writer, editor, and beta reader for this fic so I don't always catch where things get muddled, so y'all's input is really helpful for future updates.

Robin blinked. Once, twice, three times before the cloudy film lifted from his vision to reveal yet another unfamiliar space. It was jarring, the sight of a room drenched in soft darkness broken up by scattered spots of warm, dimmed light and crowded with sleek, expensive-looking furniture all seemingly soft to the touch. The room’s warmth felt odd, pressed against his skin like a blanket or a hug to seep through into his bones — chasing away the horrible, unending, aching chill from the labs. He shifted on the couch, felt it give and spring up where pressure was placed and removed, all of it soft and pliable and comfortable underneath him. His eyes burned with the sudden need to close, to lay back and sleep in an effort to make up for a lack he hadn’t noticed he’d accumulated. Except he remembered. 

He remembered sleeping — well, being put to sleep — after pushing out his message to any and all frequencies he could through their systems. He remembered fits of chaotic dreams and wakefulness, blurry and mixed with the cloudy haze of drugs and pain and beeping machines. Then a stranger and finally getting out of that room. Guns and guards, and he’d decided — One down and he’d turned and then pain and … Nothing. Only darkness and a deep gnawing hunger that chased him even now, dull and nearly dormant but still there just under his skin like buzzing static. It unsettled him. It always did. The knowledge that he’d lost time. Again. 

His breath shuddered when he exhaled, slow and long in an effort to expel the tension in his limbs. He dragged a hand down his face, felt the slick drag of sweat and the sharp pull where his fingers snagged on damp, knotted strands of overgrown hair that had stuck to his face, and spared a moment to chew on his thumbnail before withdrawing his hand all together. The static under his skin burned with an urgency to move, made it so even the feel of the plush couch underneath him rankled where it touched. He needed to move, walk, run, jump, _something_ before he went mad with this feeling, but hesitation won out. Could he move? If he’d been left sitting here it was for a reason. Would he be punished for standing? Perhaps the warm lights would flicker and fail only to be replaced with the burning bright bulbs he’d been forced to stare at for the last however long he’d been there. Maybe this was a prize to be ripped out from under him for disobeying an order he could no longer remember. Would the doctors and guards pour in? Prove to him his attempt at escape had failed yet again? Or worse.

He slouched back against the couch, the feel of cloth on skin burning as he forced himself into the material, and wrapped his arms around himself as though he’d caught a sudden chill. It was a surprise to find loose cotton under his palms and brushing his skin instead of his thin training uniform. He hadn’t even realized his clothes had been changed. Or that his wound, apparently, had been treated: bandaged and sutured shut, he realized, as he felt the pull of stitches and the wrapping under his shirt. It was odd. Made him nervous. Made him want to laugh. More than a year there and they’d never treated any injury so carefully. Never gave him new clothes. Why now? What had he done to please them? 

The stranger’s face, pale and drawn under gunfire, flashed to the forefront of his mind as if in answer to his silent question and Robin paled. Hawkeye. The man had called himself Hawkeye, told him he was there to help. Robin clutched at the fabric of his sleeves with a white-knuckled grip, felt his body shake and his breath stop. He couldn’t remember. Had he? Could he? Would he? He bent forward, touched his head to his knees as best he could with his arms still wrapped around himself. Nausea curled in his stomach, a sick swirl of feeling that left him dry-mouthed and sweating. Was this his reward? His eyes burned with more than sleep as the first wet gasp of breath broke through his paralysis.

That first noise was enough to break the dam inside him — an ugly mix of desperate sobs that tore from his throat, left it hoarse and sore as snot and tears and spit stained his face and clothes. More than a year’s worth of grief, carefully bottled and compartmentalized, ripped through the air in the kinds of keening wails that used to plague him when he was nine with nightmares of his parents falling to their deaths. The kinds Bruce would pull him from after long hours of silent understanding, a large, soothing hand rubbing circles in his back as he was sat in his new guardian’s lap. Except there was no Bruce now. No comfort to his grief. Only his fault. His guilt. 

How long had he cried until the last of his energy had been spent? Until he was silent again, curled forward and loosely sprawled between couch and carpeted floor. The lights hadn’t suddenly morphed to burn his eyes, and no one had come to reprimand him for the display so he allowed his body to continue falling where it wanted. He didn’t — couldn’t — care. Not beyond the roiling waves of nausea and the sudden bone-deep, numb exhaustion that had always followed him after a particularly violent outburst of tears. He wanted to sleep, let his mind drift and his eyes close until he was back in the blessed darkness, but the fear of losing more time kept him awake. Instead, he settled for scrubbing his face with a sleeve and letting the arm hang limp off the couch when he was done, eyes open and staring at nothing for a while longer. 

Robin pulled in one shuddering breath after another, and tried to imagine what Bruce would say. _Calm down. Breathe. It’s okay._ And then there would be silence because Bruce, for all his compassion and sympathy, was awkward and pretty bad at trying to comfort a crying kid. The thought almost drew a small smile from him before it faltered and fell. He briefly squeezed his eyes shut and wished for Bruce’s terrible attempts at comfort. For Alfred’s sympathy-baking and silent company. 

“I killed him.” His admission, silently mouthed rather than spoken aloud, burned and tasted like bile on his tongue. He wanted to pretend Bruce was sitting there with him, listening. Frowning and unsure, but comforting because that’s what Robin needed. Maybe Alfred would lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and tell him it would all be okay. Maybe they would say it wasn’t his fault. Maybe, maybe, maybe, but nothing came. No touch. No words. No comfort. Only the emptiness inside of him and the weight of those words dragging him down a trail of half-remembered moments. Snatches of memory, blurry and ragged at the edges, left over from other stretches of lost time — scant remains he’d been desperate to shut away, forgotten in the recesses of his mind. A trail of bright red on white spattered in infinite patterns behind his eyes. A winding, wicked reminder of his guilt. One more line of damning proof.

He closed his eyes again then, unable to resist the call of sleep and unwilling to lay there, conscious, with the weight of his guilt, but a knock at the door startled him. He was torn between staying sprawled as he was, sitting up, and standing, but exhaustion made the decision for him. Bruce could lecture him about it if he ever got another chance to escape. The door’s hinges whined as it was pushed open, more caution expressed than he was used to from the guards or doctors, while Robin fumbled to twist and prop himself up on his elbows so he could peek over the couch’s back. He squinted at the body in the doorway, as though his hyper focus would allow him to see through the door before they had made a move to enter. He could hear shoes shifting, slow, even breaths, and saw the beginning of a shadow peek past the widening crack between door and wall. The air grew heavy with tension as both parties waited. Robin’s body tensed, instincts overriding his exhaustion until he was half crouched behind the couch, one hand digging into the cushion with just enough force that he’d be able to pick it up out of its place to throw or use as a shield. Whether or not he had the energy for more than that was anyone’s guess.

“Kid?” The voice on the other side was soft and careful. Familiar, though he’d only heard it that one time.

“H-Hawkeye?” Robin’s voice rasped and broke, pulled through his throat like meat through a grinder. Heat and pressure built up in his eyes, his breathing stilled, and he stood, tense now for a whole other reason. Hawkeye’s face and one shoulder popped through the crack in the door, grin in place and a hand raised to wave at him. “You’re alive.” It was more statement than question, but it made Hawkeye pause all the same as he pulled the rest of himself into the room.

“’Course, kid. You, uh, don’t remember?” Hawkeye’s brows furrowed, confusion and concern mixing and marring what had been an otherwise happy expression.

“You’re alive,” Robin repeated instead of answering and felt the tears pool and fall. He hadn’t thought he’d had enough left in him to cry more, but he could. And he did. Without a thought he vaulted over the couch and launched himself at Hawkeye the same way he used to do after particularly frightening patrols with Bruce when he’d first become Robin. 

Hawkeye startled, but caught him when he wrapped the older hero up in a weak, trembling hug. A fraction of the weight, the guilt, that had crushed him lifted — eased off his shoulders and dispersed into the air. Robin babbled, mumbled half-finished sentences into Hawkeye’s clothes, unwilling and too embarrassed to show his tear-stained face, but still too relieved to stop crying. Hawkeye, tensed at first, eased as the hug lingered, and wrapped a careful arm around Robin’s shoulders, patting at one in a show of awkward support. Robin squeezed Hawkeye’s frame once more, hands wrapped around his forearms as though someone might come at any moment to pry them apart, before he pulled back just enough to look at Hawkeye’s face. Study it. See the life in his eyes and the subtle flush in his cheeks, his nostrils move as he breathed and his mouth quirk in a confused yet kind smile. 

“Here, gimme a sec, let me just,” Hawkeye twisted enough in Robin’s slack grip to reach back and close the door, the sharp click and hiss of a lock the only sign that it was more than a normal door at all, before he turned back around and gestured at the couch. “C’mon let’s sit down. You okay? And what’s this about me being alive?” 

Robin kept one hand fisted in the fabric of Hawkeye’s hoodie — dark blue with a circular, white bird emblem he didn’t recognize — as they walked, and hesitated only a moment before taking a seat next to the older hero, taking care to slant his body enough that they almost faced each other. His body sunk into the cushion like it had been molded for him and he felt then, somehow, even more spent than he had before. Rather than succumb to the urge to make himself comfortable, he pulled his back and shoulders straight into a posture so perfect he was sure Alfred would have cried tears of joy. It was uncomfortable, but it worked. Forced him to focus on staying upright and in place rather than struggling not to nod off. Hawkeye watched him, but said nothing. Only gestured when Robin didn’t immediately answer his questions.

“O-oh. Sorry, I, um,” Robin met Hawkeye’s eyes, felt his own begin to sting, and glanced away sharply. “Sorry. I just. I thought you were dead.” His voice had dropped to a whisper and his words came slow and choked, nearly a sob when he admitted: “I thought I’d killed you.”  
There was silence. Then, a soft and startled: “What?”

“I,” Robin started, stopped, chewed his lower lip harshly and lapsed back into heavy silence. Hawkeye waited. Instead of answering, he asked “Why did they keep you alive?” He glanced up, not quite looking at Hawkeye, but close enough. 

_“What?”_

Robin bristled, suddenly annoyed at Hawkeye and at himself as a small, kernel of suspicion planted itself in his mind. “Why are you alive? Why am I here? Was it a test? Is it still a test? Is that why I’m in this room? Should I be doing something? Saying something? I-I thought it was a reward, maybe but that has to be wrong if you’re here. Alive,” he added with one more quick look at Hawkeye’s face to confirm his status as definitely living. “But then I don’t understand why you’re here. Why break the scenario? And why dressed like that instead of in uniform? To make me feel at ease? But it’s never mattered before, and I…” Robin continued, voice softer, babbling theories and questions and growing increasingly more frantic with each word. He rocked, soft and slow, back and forth on the couch. Tugged at his hair, alternating between pushing it back and away from his face and using it to cover himself, as though he could hide behind the tangled mess. 

Hawkeye watched, silent — shocked? — until Robin felt a twinge of pain and the tangy taste of copper on his tongue. Hawkeye jerked, grabbed Robin’s shoulder more roughly than he’d meant to, and winced when Robin stilled, body rigid from head to toe and eyes wide. Startled. Scared. Hawkeye squeezed Robin’s shoulder, the gesture meant to be reassuring, but all it did was make him feel sick. He had done something wrong. Said something wrong. Some of the doctors and trainers didn’t like when he babbled. It irritated them, and, apparently, Hawkeye too. He watched the man from behind his bangs, hunched his shoulders and curled inward in an attempt to seem apologetic and submissive. When Hawkeye raised a hand, Robin tensed, expecting to be struck. Instead, Hawkeye brushed away some of the hair hanging in Robin’s face and touched his lip. It throbbed, wet with blood and inflamed, split and roughly torn in half from having chewed it too hard. He hadn’t even noticed he’d done that.

“Shit, kid. That’s… That might need stitches. Let me get—” Hawkeye started to rise but stopped abruptly when Robin asked

“Why? You know I heal.” Robin’s brows furrowed, confusion and fear on his face despite his best attempts to look as neutral as possible. Was it another test? Or a joke? He knew some of them liked to make jokes, even if none of them were funny or made sense. And if it was, this one seemed especially unfunny. He’d learned early on that the people he should distrust most were the ones who pretended to treat him like a person. Who feigned sympathy as they tested and poked and prodded. He had to be careful, because Hawkeye seemed an excellent actor. Robin couldn’t find any deception, no ticks or cold eyes that gave his act away. 

“Heal? Like, a healing factor?” Robin narrowed his eyes enough to look annoyed, but careful about not coming off as threatening. “Kid, are you, uh,” Hawkeye glanced away briefly, and rubbed the back of his neck, lips pulled thin in a grimace. “Are you a mutant?” Robin balked. Opened his mouth and closed it a few times without a sound, and stared. Hawkeye waited, silent and patient, shoulders tense but the rest of his body forcefully relaxed. He spoke again only when it was clear Robin wouldn’t answer. “Look,” he sighed and rubbed the space between his eyes. “I’m not trying to pry and you don’t really have to answer if you don’t want to, but if you are, and if you wanted, we could get in contact with some people. Other mutants who can help you out and keep you safe from the kinds of assholes who kidnap kids like you. It’s supposed to be a whole big school, though I’ve never personally visited myself, and it’s, far as I know, mutants only.”

Robin clenched his jaw and balled his hands into fists against his thighs. A familiar fire lapped at his skin, heating him from the inside out until it was almost impossible to sit still. _You know what I am_ , he wanted to scream. To spit in Hawkeye’s face and fake kindness. He ached to punch Hawkeye’s face, right in the mouth. Could even feel the man’s teeth shatter under the force and the way the skin on his knuckles would split before stitching back together — the image of it so clear in his head that he was almost surprised to find himself seated and Hawkeye unharmed the next time he blinked. His self-restraint had improved compared to when he’d first woken up in those labs, but even that had a limit. A limit he was dangerously close to reaching. 

“If you want some time to think it over,” Hawkeye began, leaning over just enough that Robin could see into his eyes. Blue eyes, wide with sympathy or maybe pity but still warm. Small crows feet and deep, dark bags that showed how little he slept. Robin’s knuckles turned white and his nails dug into the meat of his palms hard enough to pierce the skin. If he ignored the sun-kissed tan, dirty-blond hair, darker colored eyes, and less intense structure of his face he could almost pretend it was Bruce. Concerned Bruce who always tried to meet him at eye level no matter if it meant getting to his knees or leaning weirdly. Tired Bruce who cared too much about the people of his city to sleep, but still tried to make time for Robin despite how exhausted he had to be. His father, Bruce, who had not come for him yet. Who might never come. 

And that was enough. The tension, the fire, died out. Left him tired and boneless. He hung his head, let his chin thump against his chest, and when he spoke his voice was small. Childish. Defeated. 

“What do you want from me?” 

He dragged his gaze up from his too-pale hands, now only half curled on his lap with smudges of blood peeking through, to look at Hawkeye directly. He watched Hawkeye stiffen, his whole body this time, and blink. Watched first confusion and then a deep concern settle on his features, deepening the visible lines on his face. Watched his skin pale ever so slightly as he swallowed reflexively. 

“Kid?” It seemed to be all Hawkeye could say, the rest of whatever he wanted to ask dead before it even touched his tongue. 

Robin shrugged. “Just… Just tell me what you want. If this is another test or trick or joke,” he said, but the rest wouldn’t budge, so he changed course. “You win.” The words were poison on his tongue, and his voice broke when he spoke them. “You win,” he repeated a little more forcefully. “I can’t do… _this_ anymore. These games. So, you win. Whatever you want, I won’t fight anymore.” Robin squeezed his eyes shut, tried to stamp down the full-bodied shiver that had started up. Would Bruce hate him for this? For giving up? Would he understand? Robin had tried so hard for so long. Been strong and optimistic and as much the partner of the World’s Greatest Detective as he could be, but he was _tired_. He was done.

He felt the couch shift and heard Hawkeye move, the sound of his steps soft and muted on the carpet as he came to stand in front of Robin. There was a rushed exhale of breath as Hawkeye shifted to kneel and a muttered “I suck at this” before large, warm, rough hands grabbed his. Hawkeye’s hands enveloped his completely the same way Bruce’s did. Robin’s breath hitched and his chest tightened. Hawkeye squeezed his hands, careful not to apply too much pressure. 

“Look at me, kid.” Hawkeye’s voice was low and serious, but soft with a melancholic tinge to it. His eyes felt glued shut, but Robin opened them with effort. Whatever Hawkeye saw in them made him frown. Made his eyes glaze slightly with moisture. “I told you who I was, right? What I was and why I was there?”

“Don’t.” It was a cross between a plea and a whine. Pitiful and soft, but Robin didn’t care. He was done being lied to. He wanted the joke to end.

“I’m Hawkeye, but you can call me Clint.” 

“Please. Don’t.”

“I’m a hero. One of the Avengers.” 

“Liar.” The word dripped vitriol, but there was little heat behind it.

Silence, horrible and deafening, filled the space between them. Hawkeye swallowed, his palms clammy as he held Robin’s a fraction tighter and took a breath. Robin sagged, a rag-doll in human form. 

“We were there because someone asked for help, and we found you.” Robin’s sight blurred with fresh tears that refused to disappear when he tried to blink them away. So he closed them instead, refusing to look at Hawkeye any longer. “Where do you think you are?” The question was gentle, barely more than a whisper. Robin didn’t answer. “Hey,” Hawkeye rubbed circles into the back of Robin’s hand with the pad of his thumb, and asked again. Still soft, but more demanding. “Where are you right now?”

There was a lump in Robin’s throat that refused to let him speak. He bowed his head, hiding behind his hair again, and caught his lip between his teeth. His body wouldn’t stop shaking and the tears refused to dry, so he sat there. Silent. Miserable. Scared. And Hawkeye waited, silent and still except for his hands. No one had been this way with him since he’d been taken by Klarion and Vandal. Patient and kind. Some small, hopeful part of him sparked to life. His stomach churned and the still-healing parts of his gunshot wound ached. He needed to answer, but every time he opened his mouth his voice failed him until, finally, Hawkeye took pity.

“You’re safe, inside probably one of the safest places you can be: Avengers Tower.” Hawkeye paused, then added with a joking lilt to his voice, “Well, technically it’s Stark Tower, but we have to knock his overly inflated, billionaire ego down a peg every once in a while.” Robin didn’t laugh, or even react. “Look, I mean it. You’re safe. You’re out of that place. I promise.” Still Robin didn’t move, not even to open his eyes or speak. Not until Hawkeye stood, hands still holding both of Robin’s, and he said “I’ll prove it. Jarvis? The view, if you would?”

“Of course.” 

The voice, mechanical and slightly tinny, but painful in a vaguely familiar heart-wrenching way, startled Robin nearly out of his seat. He surveyed the room with quick, efficient focus, eyes roving over every shadow, but found no third party. Before he could bring himself to ask about it, the walls to his left whirred and clicked. Robin’s head snapped to the side, eyes wide as the panels opened on the walls to reveal a wall made entirely of glass — floor-to-ceiling panes with no balcony beyond, but a breathtaking view. A city, overcast and drizzling with the moon and stars and sky obscured, filled to the brim with skyscrapers and squat buildings all mixed together and lit up bright enough that it stung his eyes. The silhouette was wrong, with all the familiarity of home missing, but it was a city. It was close enough. His heart ached and, as he stood, he felt unsteady. Twice his legs buckled and Hawkeye was forced to help him across the room to the windows. He pressed his palms against the glass, felt the cold seep into his skin, but for once didn’t mind it. His breathing stuttered, wet and wobbly. He pressed harder against the glass, as if by sheer will he could phase through it like the Flash.

“Do you wanna…” Hawkeye’s question trailed off, but Robin caught the meaning easily enough. He nodded, his head bobbing up and down too fast, eyes wide as he turned to Hawkeye with only the slightest hesitation. 

Part of him didn’t want to leave the window, afraid it would disappear if it left his sight. Hawkeye watched him, patient, until Robin was ready. He let himself be guided to the door Hawkeye had entered from, through a hall, and into another small space where an elevator sat, etched into the wall. Hawkeye passed a little card over a scanner and, after a sharp beep and a short wait, the door opened. Robin buzzed, all of him so suddenly alive it was almost painful — too much for him to really pay attention, though he knew he should. Just in case. But he couldn’t. All he could do was shift from foot to foot, staring at the door as they were spirited upward at a speed he was sure elevators didn’t usually go. Not that he minded the quicker ascent. 

The door opened with a soft ding into another room with glass walls, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. His feet stuck, rooted to the floor where all he could do was stare out, past the windows and over the horizon. It wasn’t until Hawkeye nudged him, a friendly push to his shoulder, that his brain regained the ability to move him forward. He walked slow and stilted toward the windows, steered by Hawkeye to a set of glass doors leading out to the rooftop terrace. The older man pushed open one of the doors and walked out first, turning back only when Robin didn’t immediately follow. 

“You coming?” 

Hawkeye smiled, reached out one hand for him to take as though he were a kid half his age. Or a traumatized victim too scared still to move — which was fair, technically. Robin swallowed. His hands shook. The breeze was cold and pulled the light drizzle inward so it dripped on the hardwood floor and wet his new, soft clothes. He felt stiffer almost immediately in the cold, his limbs even slower to move than they already had been, but he could hardly find it in himself to care. Finally, he took Hawkeye’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled forward, one foot at a time, until he was directly under the sky. No white tiled ceilings or walls. No florescent lights. No guards with guns. Only Hawkeye and him and the rain and clouds hiding the moon and stars. 

“See? You’re out, kid. You’re free.” 

Robin stared. At Hawkeye. At the horizon. At the cement under his feet and the water dripping off him. Hawkeye’s words bounced around his head, repeating over and over and over until they spilled out, bubbled up in his throat and fell out in a quiet chant to himself. He trembled, full-bodied and violent. His legs faltered and buckled, but Hawkeye caught him and helped him to his knees where he sat. And stared. He was free.

_He was free._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I wanna thank everyone who's read and commented and left kudos so far! Thank you for being interested in this fic and getting me through those writerly slumps. You're all amazing <3


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